


Standing Understood

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Banter, Finntrospection, Hand Jobs, How They Get Together, M/M, Makeouts, OTP Feels, Post-TLJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: "Costumes? What for?" It's the things that people take for granted, that they assume Finn knows,that Finn likes to watch out for. What goes unnoticed tells him a lot.Poe looks surprised, brows jumping up, mouth opening slightly. "For disguise and dress-up!"Finn learns what the hell the Costume Department is (as well as some other salient facts).





	Standing Understood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galacticproportions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/gifts).



> Happy early birthday, GP! ♥ ♥ ♥ This wouldn't exist without you and our friendship and conversations, so thank you.
> 
> Thanks to orchis for handholding and wonderful beta.

I understand the need to define as a need for stability. That I and you can be things, standing understood, among each other. One word can be a poem believe it, one word can destroy a poem dare I. \-- Layli Long Soldier, "Vaporative"  
  
Finn has no idea when all this got going.

It must have started small, hardly anything noticeable and easy to forget. Just a pause in market-stalls here, or a slight delay heading out of a settlement there: nothing, really. Finn has been so preoccupied with the _big_ stuff that it's only now, looking back, that he can start to discern the pattern.

Here is what Finn knows: Wherever he's gone, ever since they fled Crait, Poe has picked up some clothes. Not necessarily for himself (unless he has a secret, never-suspected love for Trandoshan dancewear), not always even near his size, just clothes of all kinds, weights, origins, and uses. Overcoats and synthfur muffs, flimsy desert veils and teleidoscopic goggles, overshirts and singlets and ruffled jerseys. 

Two minutes ago, Finn opened the wrong door in the _Falcon_ 's cargo annex. Approximately half of those clothes spilled out in a multicolor, tangled torrent. They drift and mound over his boots and stir in the drafts back here. 

"Hey, Poe?" Finn asks now, dropping the Toydarian funeral cloak. It's only as long as his own forearm, too small even for Maz. He keeps his voice calm, as calm as he can given his _intense_ and overwhelming confusion (and, to be honest, deep amusement), and repeats himself.

"Find that spanner?" Poe calls back from the other side of the annex.

"Not as such, no," Finn replies. "Little distracted here."

There's a rattle and series of bangs as Poe extricates himself from the drive he has been fiddling with, then a thud as he jumps down. Several quick boot-thumps later, and he is at Finn's side, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking the hair out of his eyes. "What's up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Spanners and wrenches are in locker alpha! This is locker gamma! Totally different, Finn!"

"Yes," Finn says, as carefully as he can. He's trying not to laugh; he doesn't know what to make of any of this.

"Here, see?" Poe yanks on the handle to the next compartment and pulls out a long drawer full of tools. "Spanners and wrenches. And—" He leans in, squinting. "Some teethcleaning apparatus, old holo lens, and what might be a bacterial colony, I dunno. Anyway." He retrieves a spindly-looking spanner and hipchecks the drawer shut.

"So what's all this?" Finn asks. Maybe, he thinks too late, Poe doesn't want to talk about it, but that feels unlikely. There are, at least so far in Finn's experience, very few things that Poe doesn't want to talk about. He approaches conversations like Rey does food: voraciously, inexhaustibly, so enthusiastically you can't help but admire the whole spectacle.

"Costume department," Poe replies, nodding quickly, his fists planted on his hips, spanner at a cocky angle behind one ear. He says it matter-of-factly, as he would give the hyperlane number or identify a small lugnut. When Finn doesn't say anything, Poe adds, shrugging, "Start of it, anyway. Old one got left behind with everything else, so I'm doing what I can to—" He breaks off there, shrugs once more, then scratches the back of his neck. "You know how it goes."

"I don't," Finn admits. "Costumes? What for?" It's the things that people take for granted, that they assume Finn knows, that Finn likes to watch out for. What goes unnoticed tells him a lot.

Poe looks surprised, brows jumping up, mouth opening slightly. "For disguise and dress-up!"

"Right," Finn says. That is the definition of a "costume", after all. "Yes, that makes sense, I guess."

"So what's the problem?"

"No problem. Why? What makes you think there's a problem?"

Poe frowns. "I don't know, you've got that..." He circles his hand vaguely around in front of Finn's face. "Thinking-hard, doubting-harder expression you get when confronted with banthashit. Usually _my_ banthashit."

"I've got a special expression for that?" Finn tries to relax his face, smooth out any expression that might be there. Now he's not only more confused, he's at a loss as to how to change something he didn't know existed.

Poe's nodding rapidly again. The spanner clatters to the floor behind him. "Lots of them, actually. For listening and also for talking! Then there's the ones for negotiating, you've got those, too. You do not suffer fools and double-crossers lightly, that's all I can say."

Finn frowns, then realizes what he's doing. He tries to stop, but it's too late. Poe is grinning at him, poking him hard in the chest, saying, "There it is!"

 _You watch pretty carefully, huh?_ Finn nearly says. He wants to say it, would like to hear it confirmed or denied, but something stops him. 

Maybe the question is too personal. It would be like asking what someone dreamt about last night, or what their greatest fear is, or who among the dead they most dearly miss. While Finn is still feeling his way around which questions are acceptable and which are not, he's sure about this one.

 _It's like this,_ Rose has said on several occasions, a little more frustrated each time. _Unless you truly need the info, you don't want to ask things that make the other person too aware of themselves. Self-conscious, get it?_

He doesn't want to call Poe's attention to this. That would be rude, that's what he's telling himself. Then again, Poe likes talking. Poe's an open ledger, an unencrypted holo, a font of ebullient, raucous storytelling. It might not be Poe he's saving here. 

"Tell me about the Costume Department," Finn says as he drops to one knee to start gathering up the pile. "Sorry for the mess."

"It's no problem," Poe says, joining him. They both grab a flak jacket, then drop it so the other can have it, and proceed to grab the same length of ornate red silk. Finally, Poe sits back on his heels and says, "You fold, I stow, how's that sound?"

"Sounds good, sure."

The Costume Department, he learns while they tidy up, is Poe's own personal enthusiasm and project: _Some might say it's a calling. I wouldn't. Stop them, that is._ Disguises might be needed at any moment, for all sorts of activities: Outright espionage, of course, but also any time you'd rather not stick out. Reconnaissance in advance of a diplomatic meeting, say, or fieldwork prior to engagement.

"And, who knows, maybe there will be formal occasions at some point?" Poe jumps back to his feet in order to hang up a long swirl of Naboovian feathers. "For those times when you really _do_ need to draw attention. Wouldn't want to show up to those in the flak vest or greasy flight suit, you know?"

"No, of course not," Finn says. Poe glances down at him, his grin fading into a quieter sort of smile, not so flashy, but every bit as warm. "That's something you're concerned about? Formal occasions?"

"Me? Nah." Poe snorts and shakes his head.

"Oh, all right." Finn toys with the embroidered hem of a short, heavy robe.

"I clean up okay," Poe continues, dropping down to a crouch again. "Don't get me wrong."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Finn says. 

They're smiling at each other again. This keeps happening with Poe, always has. Even on the _Finalizer_ , with Poe's face bloody and bruised swollen, they paused a few times just to smile. Finn isn't entirely sure what this means, this habit of stopping and sharing like this, mirroring these particular expressions. There is the obvious surface meaning, of course, in that they're pausing to appreciate being in agreement, but that raises the next question, which is, how does that keep happening between two relative strangers?

For once, Finn is not all that anxious to solve the uncertainty. He's fairly comfortable just letting the smiles happen. Maybe the meaning will reveal itself in time.

"But I meant more, like, other people and formal occasions," Poe continues. He sways back and forth in his squat. "You know, like commitment ceremonies. Or medals. Promotions. That kind of thing."

"Ah," Finn says. "None of that for you?"

Poe braces his elbow against the bank of lockers and rests his head in his palm. "Why? You asking?"

"Asking what?"

But Poe keeps looking him over. Quietly, which is fairly uncharacteristic of the man Finn has come to know for shouting and urging and encouraging groups and partners, but not all that unusual for him when they're alone. His lids are slightly lowered and one corner of his mouth caught in his teeth.

Just after they fled Crait, Poe was unrecognizable. Finn kept telling himself that this was a flawed observation, since he _didn't know the guy_ , so how would he know what was recognizable versus not? Yet the thought continued to recur. Poe was wound tight, hunched and tense, hollow-eyed and grit-voiced. He snapped, when he bothered to reply, and winced at himself. He moved like a man drowning.

Finn couldn't take his eyes off him, couldn't stop thinking about him. Was he looking for the Poe he expected to find, or the man in front of him? He still doesn't know. There is so much he doesn't know; he grabs at the edges of remarks and pores over stray references. He evaluates both what someone has said and what they seem to assume is already understood.

Among the vast store of things he doesn't know for sure, Finn cannot pinpoint when Poe started doing better. Maybe all it took was the costume department to pull him back together. That is a facile conclusion, Finn knows, but it will have to do for now.

"I just mean," Finn starts. He needs to fill up the quiet, to try his own voice, to test whatever this is that's spinning and thickening and strengthening between them. "You probably look great all dressed up."

Poe smiles slowly, then rubs his chin, half-hiding the expression as he thinks that over. His gaze moves away, but Finn still feels caught here, warm and _full_ somehow, filled right to the brim and heavy. "Like I said. Cleaned up all right."

"Past tense," Finn observes, almost under his breath. 

"Well, sure," Poe says. "I don't really see myself getting the Republic's Gold Taproot for Honor and Courage any time soon, do you?"

"Need a republic for that, first off."

"Exactly." Poe sways very gently into Finn's shoulder, then rests there for a moment. "You get it. That means a lot."

Finn starts to ask, as if automatically, _Get what?_ He is far more easily caught up in the rhythm of conversation these days, finds himself making appropriate noises and asking polite questions to keep the talk going. That's all a welcome change from how _clumsy_ and blunt he used to be. But he doesn't need to do much of that with Poe.

What's more, he doesn't _want_ to do that, not with Poe. He doesn't want anything to become rote and thoughtless, not now, not ever again. Especially not with those he cares about.

"Even back then," Poe says, sounding hoarse, "Medals and ceremonies were...."

 _Back then_. Time has acquired space and scale. The past is several systems, countless planets, away. The past is blown to bits like Hosnian Prime, and they're still fleeing.

"I get it," Finn says. He's not sure if he does. He doesn't know if it's possible to fully understand. But he _wants_ to, and that might make the difference. 

Poe swallows and nods and looks Finn dead in the eye. "You do."

Finn's never going back, that's the thing. And now no one he loves is, either. They are every bit as exiled as he is. He shuffles closer, knocking Poe's shoulder, then resting there, keeping a steady pressure. His consciousness expands and focuses on Poe, his body, the warmth of his arm, the faint scent of sweat and pomade off his scalp. It's almost too much to take. Worry pierces his thoughts, shakes at them like an animal with prey in its jaws. Finn exhales and lets it happen, and after several moments, he is still here, with Poe leaning against him, and the worry has slunk away.

"Got something for you." Poe shifts away to dig in his back pocket.

"More costumes?"

Poe glances at him sharply. "You want a costume? We can find you a costume!"

"I'm good for now." Finn holds out a hand for Poe to grasp as he keeps wriggling. He finally manages to extract a packet of smoked cetacean beans.

"Check it out! Your favorite!" His grin is broad and happy and Finn has to answer it with his own. He does love those beans, so spicy and then sweet when you crack their hearts.

"Starting to wonder if you do anything but shop on your missions," Finn tells him as they munch their way through the bag. "What with all the costumes and snacks, when do you possibly fit in diplomacy and negotiation and recon?"

Poe starts to scowl, then shrugs as he realizes Finn is teasing him. "Important to take care of...you know. Lots of aspects of life. As many as you can. I also keep an eye out for assassins and Ren recruiters, _and_ those gross tuber slices Rey can't get enough of."

"The purple ones? Gross."

"The very gross, very purple ones, yeah." Poe nods. "And folk-art jewelry for the general, droids looking for a direction in life, you know."

Finn doesn't doubt it. "Those droids, for you? Beebs?"

"Artoo, mostly," Poe replies. 

"Just what we need, more delinquents."

"Makes life interesting," Poe says.

"That's one way to put it," Finn says and shakes the last crumbs from the packet into his mouth. He's starting to doubt his earlier thoughts. He'd believed he'd been distracted by larger issues (survival, resistance) to notice a minor thing like Poe's accumulation of random clothes. 

That had been a reasonable assumption, really. Given the choice, anyone would rank survival well above costume. You wouldn't even have to think about it.

But Poe has thought about it, and now Finn is, too. Ranking doesn't have to happen. No one has to choose one over the other. They are surviving (somehow, just barely, miraculously) _and_ Poe is rebuilding the costume department. Both things are true; they have been true, together, for longer than Finn has been aware of the issue. And, not or; together, not choice.

"You're thinking again," Poe says.

Finn nods, rubbing his mouth, then the side of his head. "Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?" Leaning on one hand, Poe tilts closer. "Can't promise I'll be able to keep up but—"

"No," Finn says, surprising Poe, making him blink fast. "I'm good."

 _What do you and Dameron **do** all the time?_, Rey has asked more than once. Most recently was two days ago, after Poe ambled by the spot where Finn and Rey were sparring to ask if he wanted to help in the cargo hold today.

 _Nothing. Regular stuff,_ Finn has told her. _Hang out._ He loves the concept of hanging out: nowhere to go, no one to answer to, just some time breathing some air and sharing good food, maybe dreaming up some terrible jokes.

Her face scrunches up at whatever answer he happens to give.

"Like what we do," he said last time. "Just spend some time together."

"But we're _doing_ something," she pointed out. It was true; they were soaked with sweat, their ears clanging from the collision of their practice sabers. "And we're friends."

"I'm friends with Poe, too."

"You barely know him!"

He jabbed his saber toward her. "Hardly know you but I hang all the same."

She wanted to protest. He could see it on her face; he watched the conflict play out between the urge to dispute that and the sense that maybe he had a point.

This, however, is a whole new way to hang out. 

Poe is on the floor, legs splayed open as he leans against the bank of lockers. He has a decorative sash, bright sunny yellow with lavender embroidery, tied around his head. They couldn't find a matching one for Finn, so Poe tied a jaunty metallofibre kerchief around his neck. 

"We need to get you a hat of some kind," Poe says.

"I'm good." When Poe scowls at that, Finn adds, "What about you? Need a cloak, maybe?"

Poe frowns a little—not in anger, Finn can see that, but as part of concentrating. He's learning his friends' expressions even as they're getting acquainted with his own. This is the sort of realization that arrives without fanfare, that occurs to him as if he's always known this quiet, simple fact.

"Possibly a turban for you?" Poe tilts his head. 

_Why do you like him so much, anyway?_ Rey had asked.

"Why, don't you like him?"

"I like him fine," she said. "Not like you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Leaning on her saber like a cane, Rey squinted at him, then looked away. "I don't know. Just that it's different."

While Poe kneels to dig through the locker for a turban, cloak, or something else entirely, Finn asks, "How do you know when you like someone?" He closes his eyes to make it easier.

"How do _I_ , Pozole L. B. Dameron, know?"

"Your name isn't Pozole."

"No, but how amazing would that be?"

Finn exhales slowly. "Answer the question?"

"How do I know? Or how does a regular person know?"

"You're a regular person."

Poe shoves him lightly. "Take that back!"

"Sorry," Finn says without much sincerity, smiling. "But I meant how do you, specifically, know."

They're quiet for a bit, and then Poe says, "Are you going to open your eyes anytime soon?"

"Does your answer depend on that?"

Poe hums a little, then says, "Yeah."

"All right." Finn rubs his palm down his face and meets Poe's gaze. "Sorry, just wanted—. I don't know. Some privacy."

"For you or me?"

"Huh," Finn replies. "Good question. Both?" When Poe frowns at that, Finn adds, "Rose keeps telling me something about not embarrassing people. Making them self-conscious."

"Oh, yeah." Poe draws one knee up to his chest and loops both arms around it. "Rose is really smart."

"She is."

They go quiet again. Finn shifts and refolds his legs, then toys with another costume piece. This one is a lavender tunic, the fabric very light, slightly transparent. He lifts it on his hand, watches the outlines his fingers make beneath.

"I'm pretty hard to embarrass," Poe says eventually. "Might be impossible, actually."

"Really?"

"Need to think about it, but, yeah." Tilting his head, he starts to get a faraway look in his eyes. "Do you want me to think about it? Get you the definitive answer?"

"No," Finn says firmly. "That won't be necessary."

"All right. You change your mind, though, let me know."

"Will do." Finn folds up the filmy piece and sets it aside, but not before patting it in place, as if to reassure it. When he looks back at Poe, Poe is gazing in his general direction, but absently, wearing a faint smile. He takes a while to notice Finn, but when he does, the smile sharpens and widens and he leans forward, more intent.

"How do I know? Just do, man. Think about the person a lot. Spend as much time with them as I can. Hopefully get my hands on them." He smirks a bit, then shrugs and looks away as he tightens his hold around his knee. "Hands, mouth, you know the deal."

"Ah," Finn says. "That's—. Okay, good to know."

"You all right?" Poe asks, busying himself with a slippery pile of goggles and breathing gear. "Asking a lot of questions."

"I always ask a lot of questions."

"Do you?" He glances over his shoulder. "Maybe you do. Never noticed one way or the other."

Finn frowns a little. "And here I thought you were paying attention."

"I pay attention!" Poe swings back to drop back in front of Finn. He glares at Finn and says with all the seriousness of a diplomaic ultimatum, "I pay _lots_ of attention."

"I dunno, man, kind of feeling neglected here—" Finn shrugs and tries to sound sad, but it's hard through the laughter building up in his chest.

"Finn! Pal! I got you more beans, check it out!" Poe is twisting around, reaching and shimmying to retrieve his jacket from where he'd flung it earlier in favor of a midweight scarlet wrap. He holds up the bag in triumph. "Is this the snack of a man who neglects his friends?"

"Only if he shares it," Finn says.

Poe rips open the bag and stuffs a handful of beans into his mouth. "You called me neglectful."

"I did not," Finn says and grabs for the bag. 

Poe shouts, spraying half-chewed beans, and lunges after him; it's easy to fend him off, but Finn doesn't. He just clutches the bag to his chest and lets Poe tackle him, shoving him backward. He lands on his back, staring up at Poe's wild-eyed laughing face, and says tonelessly, "Hey. Stop. What are you doing."

"Should I stop?" Poe sounds breathless. The sash droops over one eye and flutters between them.

"No," Finn tells him and tries to roll to the right to protect the bag, but Poe gets a knee between Finn's legs and a good hold on one of his shoulders, and _tugs_ until the bag is ripping free and spilling beans everywhere. "Now look what you did."

"Oops," Poe gasps, still laughing, but not even looking at the beans. "My bad, I'm so sorry." He plants his hand next to Finn's cheek and moves around, wiggling, settling his weight.

"Damn it," Finn says. "You're heavier than you look."

"Am not."

Finn pokes at Poe's waist. "You really are. Look like a scrap of nothing, but you're heavy as a..."

"Excuse me, a scrap of _what_?"

"You heard me." Finn attempts a wiggle of his own, because Poe has landed just below his diaphragm and it's hard to draw a full breath. From this angle, Poe is all face and riotous hair. "C'mon, _move_."

"No."

Finn wiggles one more time and succeeds in getting Poe to shift backward. And now he is about ten times more uncomfortable, because Poe's ass is nearly grazing Finn's crotch. He flashes hot, suddenly and thoroughly, and then again, even hotter.

"Like that?" Poe asks. His smile's crooked, his eyes glittering, but that might just be the angle.

"Not really," Finn says. "Maybe. Yes. A lot."

"You're not making any sense."

"Guess you're contagious."

Poe's mouth opens as he draws himself up, ready to feign outrage, then he yelps, flails, as Finn suddenly sits up. Finn grabs him before he can fall free.

"I'll have you know, sir, that—" Poe splutters, the sash caught in his mouth, and then some more when Finn tugs it free.

Finn kisses him. He doesn't have the words for what he's feeling, but before he can get frustrated by that fact, it occurs to him that he doesn't need words. Not always, not right now.

Poe's lashes sweep downward as he blinks. His lips part slightly as he exhales. Finn's falling fast but somehow noticing every single detail, the stubble along Poe's jaw, the wet sheen to his eyes, the scent of hyperfluid on his hair. He's rough against Finn's palms, then _warm_ and mobile, meeting the kiss like he's been waiting for exactly this. Maybe he's just very responsive; Finn knows he is, but this is—this feels different. This is different.

He's pretty sure this is different.

"Hey," Poe says against Finn's mouth. Into it. "You—?"

"Yeah," Finn replies. Firmly, as if he could possibly know what Poe was asking, and kisses harder, past the chance to speak, right down to clicking teeth and the strange wet heat of Poe's tongue against his own. One hand curls in Poe's hair while the other grabs at Poe's shoulder. His nails dig in, Poe shifts and bumps against him, and the kiss slides from harsh down into slow and syrupy-sweet before detouring into rapid, anxious pecks and grunts.

"What do you wanna do?" Poe asks hoarsely, face buried against Finn's neck so his voice is slurred and muffled.

It's funny, that's exactly the question he asks in strategy sessions, but then he's across a table. Now he's this mobile weight and collection of textures and temperatures and he feels so _good_ all but attached to Finn's skin like this.

"Everything," Finn replies, "Whatever you want. All of it."

Poe laughs slowly and it ripples out through Finn. His teeth catch Finn's earlobe. "Maybe start off with one?"

"Yeah, yeah." Finn twists up Poe's jersey in his fist, dragging it high so he can push forward and explore, taste, _savor_ , the skin of his chest. He knocks the back of his hand lightly against Poe's crotch. He's too filled with need to make much sense; frustration is curdling the edges of things, crisping them up. "Stand up? Want to blow you."

 _That's_ what he needs, it's obvious now. Full and filled and choking for more.

"Fuck," Poe says and shakes his head as he scratches nails abruptly across Finn's shoulder. "You have no idea —. _Yeah._ But. No, though, I don't—"

"Why?" Finn's eyes sting for a moment and frustration flares to irritation.

"No way am I staying upright, not now," Poe says. "Need something simpler, buddy."

"Oh." Finn rests his cheek against Poe's stomach, willing away both disappointment (legitimate) and something resembling hurt (ridiculous). "Sorry."

"C'mere," Poe says eventually, knocking and grabbing until they're eye-level again, chins bumping, noses brushing. Poe presses his palm along Finn's cheek and stares. They're so close that he must not be able to make much out, but that's not stopping him. "Kiss me some more?"

"Yeah—" The kiss resumes before the sound is finished emerging. They bump around, knee drawn up, other leg kicked out, kiss full of teeth and spit before righting itself. Somewhere in the middle of it, one of them whispers, _Hands?_ , and they don't need to stop to agree. Finn's already stroking the outside of Poe's trousers and Poe grunts and twists his hand to match the position. Fasteners get wrenched open and the kiss deepens, goes almost slathering and spiked with tiny moans. They spring into each other's grip, gasp and wriggle and lift their hips. They're sweaty and aching-hard already; no angle is quite perfect, for mouths or hands, but the rhythm, of pulling and sucking, jacking and tasting, takes inescapable hold. 

This isn't a seduction, not really, and it's no longer even a superficial exploration of each other's body and his reactions. They're working together, falling right into synch, chasing pleasure as one.

Finn's gut tightens and his toes flex, he grabs at Poe's messy hair and _pulls_ in time with his hand on Poe's dick; he can't catch his breath, doesn't want to, just wants to ride this ever-tightening-sharpening- _brightening_ vector. He wants every centimeter of them to touch, he wants the taste of Poe's sweat and the sound of his breath and the thrilling silken weight of his cock, and he wants to wrench tight and break apart, just like Poe is right now. Poe stills and bites at Finn's mouth and comes with a soft, vibrating sound that goes right to Finn's cock, to Poe's own hand, and then he's all in motion again, pecking rapidly at Finn's mouth and jacking him twice as fast and murmuring encouragement that never quite lasts long to form into language.

When he comes, Finn arches his back, his head knocks hollow against the lockers. Poe's face slides down his throat to the kerchief; he tongues it and Finn through the quaking moments, then rests his forehead on Finn's shoulder.

"Should dress up more often," Finn says when he can breathe again. Poe is wiping them both clean with a length of soft flannel.

"Told you, costumes are indispensable."

Finn laughs at that. He can't think of a response, but it doesn't feel like Poe's expecting one. 

When he looks over, Poe smiles lazily and brushes his knuckles down Finn's cheek and throat. "Too handsome."

"Oh," Finn says, then falters. "Thanks?"

"Welcome." Poe licks his lips, so slowly that Finn is mesmerized. _He can taste me_ : his balance wavers and tilts at the thought and his pulse bangs around inside his skin for a good long time. "You know, if I'd had more time to think about it? Should've named you **Fine**."

More laughter, slightly hysterical now rather than sated and spent, seizes Finn and won't let go. "That's so stupid!"

Poe blinks and frowns and looks away. "Oh," he mutters. "I thought it was romantic."

"You're not embarrassed, are you? You said you couldn't get embarrassed."

"Maybe I am," Poe tells him, sliding closer to wind his arm through Finn's. "Maybe it's different with you."

"Don't be embarrassed, please. I shouldn't have—" Finn swallows and works his jaw. "I shouldn't have said it was stupid."

"Nah, it _was_ stupid," Poe says, easily. "Also sincere, but I'm comfortable with the fact that it was really stupid."

Finn stares straight ahead for a long time, resisting the urge to blink, trying to find some calm amid the riot of heartbeat and breath and worry. Finally, slowly, he says, "What about with romantic?"

"Comfortable with that, too," Poe says, just as easily, and squeezes Finn's hand. "But that's me. Old and creaky and sentimental and everything. You, you do your thing."

"It's just that I don't know—" It's been a long time since the enormity of everything he has yet to learn, all that he'll probably never know, looms over him, but here it is again, implacable and dizzying. Finn stops when Poe clucks his tongue against his teeth, then huffs softly. 

"You've got it all, buddy," Poe says. "Trust me?"

"Trying," Finn says. "Is this even a good idea? This is a terrible idea."

"Which idea is that?" Poe sounds gentle, a little amused, but tense, too. At least Finn thinks he does; he could be hearing his own worry in someone else's voice. Wouldn't be the first time. "Slow down, talk it through."

"That's just it," Finn tightens his hand into a fist. He's looking straight ahead, chasing his worry, desperate to tackle it. "There isn't time to slow down, there's no time for me to learn what the hell 'romantic' even means, let alone how to be it, and—"

"Hey," Poe says, just a word, but Finn splutters to a stop and sucks in a deep breath. When he meets Poe's eyes, Poe squeezes his hand and says again, "Hey."

"Hey," Finn says back. "Don't lecture me, okay? I don't need..." He slumps a little. "All of that. The reassurance that's really a correction."

Poe shifts around, huffing a little every so often, until, finally, he says, "Do I do that? I'm—. I shouldn't do that."

"Not you," Finn says and sighs. "Just happens sometimes. It's not—I'm not being fair. Sorry, I just get—"

"It's okay," Poe says. "Don't apologize, I mean. Obviously it's not okay that you feel like shit."

"Can we just go back to kissing?" Finn asks. Exhaustion sifts through him, heavy filings he can't resist, weighing him down and thickening, slowing, his thoughts. "I'm better at that—"

"Me, too, believe me." Poe grins and lifts their linked hands, pressing his open mouth to Finn's knuckles. He slides his lips down, around, until he's kissing the soft flesh inside Finn's wrist, where his heart hammers, and Finn's not tired any longer, nor angry, not even sad or impatient. He's gasping.

"But—" Poe continues, moving their hands back down between them. "We can do both, I think."

"Okay," Finn says. "But do we have to?"

He grins at that and Finn has to smile back. "Think so, buddy. Sorry."

"Just not yet," Finn says, and Poe nods.

Poe changed after Crait imperceptibly, constantly, got a little better, then a little worse. Finn didn't notice any one change because he saw them all.

Now here's another Poe altogether, soft around the edges, so close he goes out of focus. He's similar to various Poes that Finn has come to know, in the sound of his chuckle, the spray of wrinkles fanning out from his eyes, but not the same. Heavy against Finn's side, he is looser, gestures gone liquid and slow. There are threads of white and silver twining through the curls on the top of his head; when Finn presses his face there, they stir and tickle. 

A name is a catch-all for millions of different expressions and moods and needs. This Poe, now, just like this—muscles fluttering a little, mouth sore from kissing and grinning—is Finn at the same moment. A veil can be a disguise or a costume or simply everyday wear. A name's just the sound you make when you recognize the face, when you call the one you need.

There are a million things that Finn doesn't yet know, but he's learning.


End file.
